Joren's corner buzzed with energy as he returned to the stool.
"That's your round, baby!" his boxing coach clapped. "That's what we're talking about—cleaner exits, better entries. You're seeing him now!"
Another coach nodded, wiping sweat from Joren's back. "Damon's slowing down. Keep touching him, force him to commit, then drag him in."
Their confidence was clear, but a bit premature.
They didn't see Damon's quiet reads. They only saw Joren surviving better.
"Stay sharp," the head coach warned. "You've got montum. Let's take more next round."
They believed the fight was turning.
But Damon's corner knew better.
He sat quietly on the stool, his breath steady, his face unreadable. A towel wiped across his back, while the corners around him worked without urgency.
Victor leaned in close, voice even. "They think you're slowing down."
Damon didn't look at him, just nodded faintly. "Let 'em."
One of the Irish coaches smiled as he crouched beside them. "They're celebrating control, not impact. You let him have space, now he thinks it's earned. Perfect."
Another coach added, "That last clinch? Looked like he muscled you, but he burned more energy trying to hold it. You frad and exited exactly like we drilled. He worked harder than you, got less."
Damon sipped water, then muttered, "He's reacting better now. Slipping cleaner."
Victor tapped his shoulder. "That's fine. Let him feel smart. But you're dictating pace. We didn't lose control, we traded it for information."
The grappling coach stepped up. "Now we flip it. He expects feints—so give him real threats. Don't just tag him, start breaking his base."
Damon finally looked up, calm and focused.
"He's settling into a rhythm," he said. "Ti to ruin it."
Victor grinned. "Exactly. We gave him his best round. That's all he gets."
The ten-second clapper sounded.
Damon stood, rolled his shoulders, and exhaled.
The show was over. Now it was ti to remind everyone who was really in charge.
The bell echoed through the arena.
Damon stepped forward, light on his feet, breathing calm and steady. His gloves ca up in rhythm with his breath.
He could've ended it last round. The mont was there. He'd seen the angle, felt the weight shift. But he held back.
So people had flown halfway across the world. Families filled the seats, fans scread his na.
Part of him, quietly, wanted to let them see more. A few more exchanges. A few more lessons.
Now, though—it felt right.
Across from him, Joren looked sharp. He bounced in place, his face tighter with focus, a small fire in his eyes. He looked more alive than when the fight started. Confident, even.
Damon smiled.
"Good," he thought. "Let him believe it."
He took the center again without hesitation, body loose, mind sharpened. This round wasn't about collecting reads. It wasn't about baiting. This round was about finishing the fight on his terms.
He didn't rush, nor did he hesitate. Every step was calculated. Every shift of his shoulders was deliberate.
Across from him, Joren Edlen held his stance, more stable now, hands high, chin tucked.
He wasn't bouncing anymore. His footwork had shortened, and the reactive flinching from earlier had started to fade.
Damon started with a low kick—not hard, just enough to slap the calf. Joren lifted his leg this ti, checking it.
Damon noted it without breaking rhythm. He moved left, then feinted a jab with his lead hand.
Joren twitched his right glove forward, then settled. The bite was smaller now.
Another feint. This ti, a shoulder dip into a level change.
Joren dropped his hips—but Damon stayed upright and floated back to the right.
"That's a clean read," one comntator said. "Damon's testing him, slowly drawing out reactions and banking those for later."
"Yeah, and it's subtle, too. He's not forcing anything—he's building pressure, not throwing heat yet."
Damon kept the pattern going.
He shifted his hips like he might step in for a knee, then snapped a front kick toward the body.
It landed with a solid thud on the lower ribs.
Joren grunted but reset quickly, trying to circle off the cage before Damon could press the angle.
A jab ca next. Light, fast. Then a second, followed by a hard hook to the body.
Joren blocked the jab and the hook but missed the middle strike, a short, digging rear uppercut that slipped under his high guard.
Damon stepped out as Joren swung back with a left hook. Nothing landed.
"He's making him throw at shadows now," the other comntator said. "Every ti Joren thinks he's found him, Damon's already gone."
By now, Damon had thrown over a dozen feints, shoulder dips, hip tilts, low glances, most of them unanswered.
The rest only earned minimal reactions. Joren was adapting. He was learning not to bite.
And that's when Damon stopped feinting entirely.
The switch didn't co with fanfare. He simply stepped in with a real right cross. It landed flush, snapping Joren's head back.
Damon followed it with a left hook that glanced off the guard, then threw a calf kick as Joren circled away.
Joren blinked, confused by the shift. He set his feet and jabbed forward, trying to reestablish distance.
Damon ducked under the punch, caught an angle to the left, and landed a clean rear kick to the ribs. The slap echoed through the arena.
"He's throwing real now," one voice said over the comntary. "No more illusion—just layers. That's high-level switching."
Joren fired a combination—a jab, a rear straight, and a low kick.
The jab touched, but the straight was parried, and Damon checked the kick with ease.
He stayed planted and fired back a two-punch combo, then slid away before Joren could clinch.
They reset again.
Joren tried to break the pattern by stepping into a clinch.
He got underhooks and drove Damon backward, but Damon widened his base and leaned into the cage, framing on the neck.
Then, without warning, he slipped out to the side and cracked an elbow on the break.
"That elbow on the exit again. That's the third one this fight—it's a clean weapon every ti they disengage."
Joren stumbled slightly but kept his balance.
Now he looked frustrated.
Damon didn't press. He walked forward, kicked the inside thigh, then jabbed twice and circled again.
Another jab.
Then a sudden hook.
Then silence pause.
Then a calf kick.
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